Pub vs. Club

So apparently, London, the famous London, capitol of Great Britain, closes down at 1am.

You can imagine mine and Mary's disappointment when the bar spit us back onto the street so early. We'd eaten a late dinner at a delicious, filling, and inexpensive restaurant, Tas, right near the Globe, and so were late getting out.

Yes, THE Globe. (I shed my "I'm not a tourist, I live here" attitude in London, because I was, in fact, a tourist.) The man at Tate Modern (excellent art collection), when giving us directions to Tas, said "Go up to the river and turn right. Go just past the Globe. You know, Shakespeare's Globe, and turn right again. It'll be on your left."

Ah, travel.

To return to the point. After just one pint at just one club, we were wandering around Brick Lane looking for an Englishperson to tell us where to go next. Using our carefully honed gathering instincts, we followed a woman who was shouting, "Shooters!" One of her companions, a fine young lad, scoffed at us when I asked if there were pubs open somewhere else.

"Pubs? If it's open after 1am it would be a bar, or a club. Didn't you bring your phrasebook?" Later, much later - the following night, in fact - we learned that if you want to stay up late, you should go to the Review Bar in SOHO. It's apparently famous.

Mary and I on that first night in London did not go to the Review Bar. We had one more beer and then began traipsing our way around the city, enjoying London's thriving late night bus system. Perhaps "thriving" isn't the right word. Perhaps it implies too much frequency. Anyway, we didn't go to sleep until 6am is the point.

And the following day, here was my impression: UK playgrounds - nay, European playgrounds - would make an American child shit his/her pants in excitement. Literally. So if you come, bring a change of clothes.

The playgrounds there are ENORMOUS! The slides are about four times the height and grade of our pathetic tilted planks. The jungle gyms are just that - not the temperate zone gyms we're used to. There's ziplines, high velocity swings, and merry-go-rounds everywhere. The streets are filled with cheese, but I wouldn't eat it.

I think the playground differential speaks to the way Americans are obsessively safety-minded with their children. Mothers in the US see a slide and think: Broken Neck. They see a high jungle gym platform and imagine their child covered in blood. I know, because my mother has oft described to me the terrible things she's imagined having happened to me in the five minutes that lapsed between the time I was supposed to have called her and the time I did. I also know because when Adam and Meyer climb up a ladder, I think: Broken Arm, and get the emergency numbers ready in the cell phone.

In the same way that European women will occasionally enjoy a cocktail during their third trimester but American women doing the same would be forced to wear a scarlet A on their maternity sweatshirts, European parents, it seems, have a little bit different interpretation of their children's heartiness. And why not? The British are hearty stock. Look how they resisted fascism in Europe! (They'll point out to you, again and again and again.)

Mary and I made up for lost time by spending nearly half an hour at the playground, before moving on to our walkabout London. During which walkabout it struck me: London, like Tokyo, like New York, is a modern city. Even if Westminster Abbey is close to 9 centuries old. There's Picaddilly Circus - like Times Square - with the huge TV monitors and flashy lights. There's the enormous, spread-out feel that you can only really appreciate when you're walking around in high heels at 5am looking for a bus. All that jazz.

Paris, in contrast, never got that way. There's no enormous monitors in the squares. Its still about the size of Austin, in geography and in population. There's no supermarkets. I came away from London really appreciating all that Paris has done to maintain its feel of a big city - a city where things are happening - that's a small city. Just like Austin.

Yay, Austin! Which, incidentally, is where I'll be in one week from now! Can't wait to see those of you who live there, or will be passing through. We can visit a bar together, which will close at 2am, and then go to a house which will have a yard. Roll that up in your cigarette and smoke it, Europeans. I can't wait!

I'll just call this: The Dollar Sucks.

Cher Reader,

Cher, or it's female equivalent, cherie is one of my favorite French words, for two reasons: Firstly, that it indicates one who is dear, or darling. Secondly, because of Cafe Cheri(e), a lovely little spot near my house that is a funky coffee-shop/workspace by day (think Spiderhouse meets Flightpath) and a funky bar/DJ spot by night (think Spiderhouse leaves Flightpath to put away its computer and dance). Great spot, and since it's up here in my 19th, the cafe creme is only 2.60, whereas the same drink, down south or west (in the polished parts of Paris) is twice as cher.

Wait, what? Twice as darling?

No, twice as expensive. Cher is also the word for expensive, which I was mulling over today while I walked all over Paris, avoiding the metro to save all my Euro (to change into pounds) for my trip to London this weekend. It makes sense, that something expensive would be dear, in a way. The extent to which I've been budgeting this week (to save for the pound/anything exchange rate, which is nuts these days) has made even centines cher to me.

Dear Money, please kindly stay put in my pocket. Thanks. Love, Kelly

Or, to turn it the other way, I think what I know about family life: I love my children. They're very expensive to me.

As you probably know by now, the US dollar sucks. 100 US dollars buys you 40 British Pounds. Luckily, 100 Euros fares a little better in the translation (70 GBP). Still, yikes.

And still, I am very much looking forward to my London trip. I'm taking a train to get there, and we all know how romantic a train is. Not enough has been written about trains, and I say that knowing how much has been written about trains, and how high quality some of it's been. I just mean that not enough could ever be written about trains, and I can't wait to board one tomorrow, maybe spend 2h15minutes writing about trains...

...and end up at St. Pancras, the new 800,000 pound (multiply THAT by 2.something) station in London. Then I'm off to find Mary, who's living there now, and a few other friends who've found there way in that direction. Then, its off to free museums, free walks, and free food from trash cans on the side of the road. No. Well, maybe.

I can't wait to see the city in person, having at one time been a huge fan of Victorian literature, which almost always finds its way to London. I just finished (on a more modern note) Virginia Woolf's Orlando, which was delightful, so if you ever find yourself holding it at a library, wondering whether to get it, do.

And of course, speaking of England, there's Robin Hood, which animated movie has become Adam & Meyer's new favorite film. Thankfully, we've moved on from Lion King 2, which contains possibly the worst dialogue since the movie Scream 2. Robin Hood, which I suggested on account of it being MY favorite film, next to Cinderella, is as good now as it was then, for those of you who remember.

I wonder, absentmindedly, if Robin Hood turns kids into socialists or if it just imbues them with disdain for big government. Here's the question for you: Is it Republican propaganda? OR Democrat? What Robin Hood taught me is that it's okay to steal, in certain circumstances, so long as you're socking it to the Rich. And if, in college, if you're feeding yourself, because you counted yourself as poor. Wine-poor. Anyway.

Stealing brings us back to things being expensive. And Robin Hood to things being dear. So I believe we've wrapped it all up here, which is nice because now I can focus on getting ready for my trip! Oooooo-de-lally!

La greve est grave

I am going to introduce a new word into your French vocabularies, the import of which has only sunk in, for me, after a long and difficult ten days. The word is "greve" and it means: Strike.

The metro workers are on strike, and in fact they have been for over a week now. This means that it's nearly impossible to catch a metro train. Some are running (instead of every 2-6 minutes, comme d'habitude) every 15-50 minutes, depending on the line. Some are running not at all. And if, by chance, you are in the right place at the right time and you DO catch a train, then they are absolutely, horrifically, terrifyingly packed.

I go back and forth about my feelings about this. On optimistic days, walking, I think, "How nice! I get to see the city on foot! I get to learn so much about Parisian strike culture!" And on bad days, I think "Merde." And a host of other explatives.

For example, one night, having realized there was no available metro, I got into a cab to meet Ally at the cooking class she took (my job was just to eat). But the traffic was so heavy, from everyone taking their cars while the public transportation was "quasi nul," that I ended up paying 37 euro & spending an hour in a cab...for a ride that theoretically should have cost me ten minutes and maybe ten E.

Merde. (But the food was delicious.)

It would be just to point out that just because the metro workers were on strike, doesn't mean Ally and I were. We managed to get our walk, our drink, and our goodtimes on regardless. But when have you ever known anything to get Ally down?

We visited the Musee Luxembourg for the fabulous Arcimboldo exhibit, the Centre Georges Pompidou (one of my favorites here), some shopping sites, some live music, and some great restaurants: La Cafe Constant & Chez Germaine were two of my favorites. On down nights I introduced Ally to the wonders of the Savage Lovecast: www.thestranger.com/savage.

My sympathies oscillate as far as the metro is concerned. Sometimes I think, "Democracy in action! Woohoo!" But sometimes I think the metro workers' demands are unreasonable, and that in the meantime it isn't the politicians who take the metro or the bus. It's everyone else. So all the other people of Paris are suffering interruptions in their business/work life, and yet they're in no position to meet the metro workers' demands.

Which, by the way, consist of wanting to continue to retire after 26 years of work, rather than 40, like everyone else.

But then again, I believe in unions and even to some degree in strikes. I just wish direct political action didn't have to affect me personally. I mean, I'm just a normal everyday girl trying to get to the cooking class her friend took so i can eat some g.damn mousse. Is that SO much to ask?

Apparently, in 1995, a strike like this lasted six weeks. Merde! I'm not sure I can keep my optimism up that long, especially given the drear we've been experiencing in terms of weather. It's one thing for the metro/bus drivers to strike. It's another for the sun to do it.

In the meantime, as I slurred to some Frenchmen on Saturday, Ally's last (three bottle of wine) night, I have decided to go on strike against the metro. I'm not taking it. So there.

So, marooned for the most part in my part of town, marvelling at the power of the union culture here in France, I wonder who will cave first: the metro workers (who aren't getting paid while they strike), Sarkozy (who heads up a government losing literally tens of thousands of euros each day the strike lasts), or the sun (I don't know what it's problem is). Or me. If this keeps up, I might strike against Paris, and leave the city entirely! On december 15th. Just like I planned. It all remains to be seen.

So in conclusion...er...power to the people? I guess. Merde.

What do you think this is? A blague?

Well, I've got news for you. It's a blog. And it's serious.

A blague, pronounced the same way, is the French word for "joke." I learned this word because it caught my ear and I pursued it to the point of actually opening my French/English dictionary; a drastic measure I seldom take. It caught my ear because I thought maybe they were talking about a blog.

A blog, according to the online etymology site I frequent, is short for weblog, a combination of web + log, first coined sometime in '94. Sadly, it is not a combination of we + blog, as in "We blog!" - a protest made in lieu of "We kid!" - after someone was offended by some particularly crass joke made in an online web journal. Because that would have been one hell of a linguistic coincidence.

You may think I'm taking this blog/blague pun too far, unless you, like me, are an avid fan of the O.Henry Pun-Off, held annually in Austin. Not to divert too far, but this cheesily brilliant word parry contest is just about the most fun a time as you can have north of the US/Mexico border. And it's free. It happens in May. I'll see you there.

I should bring every French friend I've ever met with me, too, because the French LOVE word plays. They are a punning sort of people. Apparently, they just can't get enough of playing with words. For example, Ratatouille (the movie) featured an advertisement poster that read, "Rat D'egout" (rat of the sewers, literally) and "Rat de gout" (rat of taste). And I'm sure the French thought that was, like, the cleverest little thing ever.

There are some interesting cross-lingual puns, too. For example, "Parfait." The word for a delicious snack combining yogurt, fruit, and granola (which McDonald's now sells as conclusive proof that they are, in fact, a restaurant dedicated to your health) is also the French word for "perfect." As in, "Wow, those McDonald's parfaits go perfect with the rubber chicken meat and the huge blocks of lard. Let's go there for dinner!"

Adam, who had been learning quite a bit of French at his school (and who has decided that Mommys are people who speak French, and Daddys are people who don't) asked me, the other day, how to laugh in French. I said to him, "Well, you're in luck, because it's the exact same." And he paused for a moment and then said, "Ha!"

What I didn't explain to him is that even though you laugh in the same way in French, you don't necessarily laugh at the same things. As my humour "research" in Tibet once proved, humur can be distinctly culturally relevant experience.

Perhaps this will help illuminate this phenomenon: In Germany, we were enjoying the company of Zane's friend Ralph, who informed us, enthusiastically, that his favorite American sitcom was "Home Improvement."

Him: "I love Tim the Toolman Taylor. He always says, 'More Power!' Ha ha ha ha."
Me: "Really?"

This, interestingly, led to a discussion of puns, and me trying to explain to people who spoke English only moderately what a pun was. The Germans, you know, have no sense of humor (see above paragraph) and so were confused as to why this seemingly inane, slightly toolish pastime was funny. We asked if they had puns in German and everyone was pretty much stumped.

Them: Okay, give us another example of a pun.
Me: Well, you have to give me a category to start with, so there's something to play off of. That's how the Pun-Off works.
Them: Um, the ocean.
Me: Water you talking about?
Them: You know, like the ocean. The sea.
Me: I know, that's why I made the pun.
Them: [not laughing] Oh.

Anyways, the French would get it. They're masters at this. It's hard to see what else they laugh at, though, besides the old classic: I let my dog poop in the street and now you just stepped in it. I bet if I could figure out the French word play for that I'd have pretty much the quintessential France blague.

Can you catch a virus through a blog?

Je suis malade. Which means, "I am sick." You'll recognize the French malade, of course, from the English malady, a cousin-word meaning the same thing. The English word "sick" is from the Old English, seoc, in turn from seukaz, of uncertain origin.

Interestingly, the Germans replaced that derivative with "krank," their word for ill, which originated in "twisted, bent" - and hence, the word crank. The things you learn.

Anyway, I blame Fannie. Fannie, in case you're wondering, is the 2,3, or 4 year old trollop who had a birthday party at Adam & Meyer's school last Friday, right before they went on the epic two-week vacation we're now about halfway through. Due to Fannie's selfish, selfish party, the children, I'm sure, must have all gathered around and shared - ugh, god, gross, fingers - cake & ice cream.

Those of you without children, who do not work with children, may not have an accurate idea of how gross children are. And I say this with love for children, but it cannot be dismissed or denied. They are disgusting.

Adam & Meyer, for example, two of my most beloved young ones, sneeze violently into communal food. They stick their fingers in their snot-effusing noses and dine like kings on the products mined. Then they touch each muffin in turn to see which one has the right consistency for them. Yug.

So I can only imagine the dreadful state of affairs at little Fannie's little party - what germs are spread when a group of children celebrates. Shudder. And of course the teachers, knowing that a plague would surely ensue, did nothing to stop the horror because, hey, whatever, they're about to send the germballs home for two weeks.

So Adam, Meyer, Lisa, Ben, and now me, have all had various manifestations of the same, weird, French disease. And of course, I mean the English manifestation (version), rather than the French (protest) because we were not able to protest the illness at all, having been doubly weakened by the virus & the vacance. My version involves me wanting to sleep all day long. Their versions, sad to say, have had more disturbing, though relatively short-term, repercussions.

I was a little worried, yesterday, that I would be forever etched in a trainful of French hearts as "That American girl who lost her dinner in the subway." But I avoided that crisis. I was not, thankfully, malade on the crowded train, which would have been gross & a big pain in the ass because the whole train stops when someone is malade. I know because once I was on a train stopped for 15-20 minutes due to someone - maybe Fannie - being malade up the line.

Another train stopped for a while yesterday - though I was not on it to witness, thankfully - due to a "serious voyager incident." This is the French euphemism for a metro suicide, which claims the life of some 60 or so people a year. The attempts always triple in frequency during the Christmas/New Year stretch. When I heard about this serious voyager incident on line 2 last night, I thought two things:

1. So the French have euphemisms, too. (In fact, the word is euphemisme.)
2. What must the driver experience?

And my heart went out, perhaps wrongly, I don't know, to the driver first & foremost. Because it is obviously not his/her fault, and it is obviously an awful experience. According to some brief research, most metro drivers are likely to experience at least one attempt in their life, and many - even after months of counseling - are never able to drive a train again.

The driverless metro line, line 14, has a complete glass barrier between the platform and the tracks, with doors that open to the tracks only when a train is in the station. This would obviously prevent attempts on other lines, but the infrastructure is too expensive. In much the same way, a real, effective guard rail on the Golden Gate Bridge would cost some outrageous amount of money & affect the careful engineering to such a degree that the state of California is reduced to posting hotline help signs at great frequency on the bridge. Maybe the French could explore that option, except I'm really not sure how effective it is.

Huh. Well. That was...cheerful. And now I feel awkward. But it recalls a conversation last night, with my friend Amy, when she received the text telling her of the serious voyager incident on line 2. She asked us, "What do you reply to that? Is there any possible witty follow-up?" We decided, after various attempts that I won't share here lest you think I'm twisted and bent, that no, there is no socially acceptable quip to follow such a piece of information.

So, I just have to end my blog, now, awkwardly. And this is what you get for reading the blog of a sick person.

Angoisse de la page blanche

So this whole blog entry started out with the basic principle that I've nothing to say. On a whim, I looked up "writer's block" in French and it turns out it's: Angoisse de la page blanche. Extreme distress at a blank page.
Normally, that seems about right, except I admit that what I felt at having little blog material was not extreme distress. It wouldn't even be fair to call it moderate distress. It was more like ambivalence. Or, as the French say, ambivalence.
I assume that most, if not all, of my readers are friends. And the great thing about friends is that you don't have to entertain them.
At least, not in the sense that you have to amuse them (French: divertir). Sometimes you have to have them over for supper (French: recevoir). But that's not the same thing, now is it, my fellow amateur linguists?
It's nice when foreign languages divide up some English words. I feel it's more accurate. My favorite example of this is the Spanish variations of "I'm sorry." There's perdona me (as in, I just bumped into you on a train and caused you to spill your groceries, my bad) and lo ciento (somebody else just bumped into you on a train, and your groceries are spilt, and I know just how you feel and I'm sorry that happened to you.) It really helps Spanish-speakers avoid those "I'm sorry - oh it's not your fault - of course it's not my fault. why would you even say that? - yeah, i know, sorry - it's okay, i'm sorry,too - about which thing? - the first one, i think, but i don't even know anymore - oh, well, um thanks" conversations.
In French, there is je suis desole, I sympathize, and je regrette, I regret.
Anyway, the reason I have so little to report is not because I am a dull and lifeless person. Nor does it have anything to do with the way I feel about handjobs, Alan, although now that you mention it I guess I feel pretty ambivalent about those, too.
I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. And by that I mean, "lo ciento," your friend is an idiot, I sympathize. It must be so awful to read such crude remarks. I know just how you feel because I'm friends with Alan Suderman. I'm not apologizing here because my comments are a result of my extreme distress at the blank page.
No, but really, the reason there isn't much to report is that I haven't discovered much of Paris this week. Instead, I've been waking up every morning and writing, writing, writing. Obviously not blogs. But short stories. I've had a lot of time on my hands and a lot of story ideas, so...voila! (See previous entry.)
The irony (or, as the French say, ironie) is that when there's a lot to say here it's usually because I haven't been writing there (by there I mean the OTHER part of my computer, where documents are stored), and when there's a lot to say there, the blog suffers. Is that ironic? I don't even know anymore.
Thanks for sticking with it to the end of this blog. I regret that it was so worthless. I look forward to diverting you in the future with a better effort.

Raped Carrots and Oven Instruction Manuals

Today I am staying near my apartment for two reasons: 1.) That's what I usually do anyway, and 2.) There is a city-wide transportation strike today. A strike, or protest, is called a Manif in French, short for manifestation. And they're everywhere - as Lisa said, it's a strike culture.

The work manif, cousin of course to our word manifest, has less of its roots in actual protest, as our word does. Rather, its roots mean, "To show clearly and plainly." I think there's something simple and poetic about that.

I have heard this said of the Parisians: That they are by and large a lazy group. They don't like "exercise," and prefer instead to smoke cigarettes and eat butter. But so much as look at them wrong, and they'll revolt. They will show clearly and plainly that they are displeased. I'm starting to see that there's some truth to this.

For example, in addition to the transportation manif today, there have been several manifs at the intersection just below my apartment. These are to protest the French treatment of Sans Papiers (literally, "Without papers," or illegals immigrants in our terms). My neighborhood is a huge immigrant neighborhood, thank God, which is why everywhere you go there's delicious couscous restaurants and amazing fabric.

But the French government is none too kind to sans papiers, just as ours in none to kind. (Hutto children's prison, anyone?) And apparently, not more than a couple of weeks ago, a Chinese woman was accosted by the immigrant enforcement in her apartment on Blvd. de la Villette (the street off of which my street runs) and in her fear, she threw herself out of the window and died.

So there have been several protests in that area now. Immigrant rights manifs tie in with the theme of the past two movies I've watched. The first, called "This is England," just came out in French theaters last week, and its amazing. Sort of recalls American History X in its intensity, content and incredible pre-teen acting. The other, "Dirty Pretty Things," is older, and just as good.

Interestingly, I am a sans papiers here, as I do not have and have not taken steps to obtain a visa. But for me, if worst comes to worst and I'm actually deported, which I probably won't be seeing as I'm white, then I will be deported to fair Austin, Texas. It's not as though I'm seeking asylum from anything.

The next proximate manif near our house is for my new favorite restaurant, the Rotisserie de Saint Marthe. Now, when I first saw the flyer for this manif, I thought perhaps that manif could also be short for manifesto, which could also be a sort of instruction manual, and that the flyer was really a set of instructions on how to keep your rotisserie oven working.

Not so, friends, not so. The Rotisserie Saint Marthe is a co-op restaurant near my house owned by several progressive associations, who take turns cooking on different evenings. The proceeds of each meal go to the respective association.

We ate there last sunday, and it was amazing. All of us crammed into a little space, eating homemade soup, couscous, and gingerbread. Talking to our tablemates. And the whole meal, everything included, was 8 euro. On top of that, the people were the first Parisians I'd seen in a group who weren't wearing all black and looking fashionably glum.

The associations are now facing eviction, as the owner wants to raise rents. Hence the upcoming manif, to protest their eviction.

Something of interest to note is that the tenant's rights here in Paris are unbelievable. As in Canada, it is illegal to evict any residential tenant during the six months of winter, as doing so would be tantamount to a death sentence (particularly in Canada). Even aside from that, the eviction process can take up to three years.

So the only control landlords really have is before the renter moves in, which actually makes it harder to find a place here than it might otherwise be. And in the case of the Rotisserie Sainte Marthe, tenants rights mean I'll have plenty of opportunities to eat there until the eviction occurs, if it ever does.

Hell, I might make it my first French manif.

As a quick interjection, in keeping with the theme of misunderstood linguistics, there is a street in Paris called the Quai de la Rapee. I thought it had something to do with violated citizens. So imagine my surprise when I came across some delicious carrots rapee. And I wondered, "raped carrots?"

No, friends, no. Rapee means shredded. The carrots were shredded. Although I still can't figure out why they're so delicious. I figured at first that they just don't rape a carrot in the States the way they do here. But now the mystery has returned.

So anyway, back to the present. Here I am, stranded for the day, which makes it a perfect day to pretend I might have gotten out of bed at 7am and spent the day photographing the metros in motion or something. But I can't, alas, because of the manif. I was made plain to me that I was to stay in bed until 11:30 am and then write all morning.

So I'm off to go running. It's my own personal protest against all the butter and cheese - see prior blog entry. And, well, viva la raza!

Bon Appetit!

Literally, it means, "Good Appetite!" but in context it means, essentially, "enjoy your meal!" I like to translate it as, "Good Eatin'!" Point is, you've all heard it before. But unless you've been to France, you've never heard it this much.

Here, it's not just the waiters who wish you good eatin'. Nope. It's everyone. It's friends. It's total strangers on the street. Hardly a day passes without hearing it multiple times. When I first arrived, I'd be walking down the street gnawing on a pastry and three to four passersby would shout out, "Bon Appetit!" I thought surely they were being sarcastic. Perhaps eating on the street was a faux-pas?

But it turns out, no. It's just that here, people wish each other good eatin' the way we wish each other Merry Christmas during the holidays. If not MORE prolifically.

In fact, the French are so eager for you to enjoy your eatin' that they have another phrase, Bon Continuacion, which they use when you're already well into your meal and may have forgotten the original Bon Appetit. For example, if you finished your entree and the waiter took thirty minutes to bring the main course.

Let me clear up confusion. In France, "entree" refers to the appetizer, and "plat" refers to the main course. Actually, this is extremely logical, as the "entree" is the entry to the meal, in the same way that an "entree" can be the entrance to the building. ("Yes,darling, just step into the appetizer and hang your coat on one of the pegs to your left...")

After the entree is the plat. After the plat is the cheese course. After the cheese course is dessert. After dessert is coffee. It's pretty awesome, if you can afford it.

The nice thing is that you don't have to tip, because the waiters are paid much better here, and the tip is generally included in the [admittedly exhorbitant] cost of most meals out. At first I thought this was awesome - I don't have to add anything to the meal!

But then I realized that essentially, the French have worked it out so that their tips are included, no matter what, and the waiters aren't working for tips. They don't care about your good graces. Which is why, though they're incredibly friendly, it can take so long between the entree and the plat that people feel compelled to wish you "Bon Continuacion," knowing that in the three hours that have passed since you first received a "Bon Appetit," surely the blessing has run its course.

If you come to Paris on a budget, don't despair. I've found plenty of ways to eat quite cheaply - cooking at home, making baguette sandwiches, and enjoying veggie couscous at the North African restaurants 'round my house. Veggie couscous, more than one person could possibly consume, 5 euro. If you ever visit Paris on a budget, eat couscous.

French food is, as you'd expect, delicious. Their ideas about "nutrition" are a little different than mine, though, so it took a few weeks to figure out what I was going to eat that wasn't some new version of bread, butter and cheese.

For example, there is a picture on the butter package of a complete breakfast (un petit dejeuner complet), and it is: a bread element, a butter element, and an expresso. And a cigarette, probably, though it isn't pictured, officially.

I have tried very hard to maintain my own, fading, concepts of healthy eating. And yet I find a change has taken place. Since being here, my whole outlook on dessert has changed, in the sense that I now feel I must have it for every meal. It's just so easy to walk down to a little bakery, pop in for a fresh little tart, and consume it.

Ithink to myself, "I've had my bread element. I've had my butter element. I've had my cheese element. What a nice, balanced meal! I shall now have dessert."

Luckily, there's hardly a preservative to be found in Paris restaurants and bakeries. Food here is fresh - there's even a little farmer's market about three steps from my house on wednesdays and saturdays where I can buy veggies, cheese, fish and - if I wanted - watches, alarm clocks, ripoff wallets and underwear.

Michael has discovered that if you hang around the farmer's market as it closes down, you can get free zucchini, pineapple, tomatoes, squash and other such things. It's usually the pieces the vendors consider not quite good enough for saving, and Michael likes to linger with the homeless folks to see what he can grab. We've enjoyed many a freegan meal that way.

And so from this long, rambling treatise on food, I'd like to sum up: It's totally possible to eat cheaply here. I do it all the time. And if you want to spend a little extra, it's totally worth it. Here in France are some of the most delicious combinations of bread, butter and cheese that you've ever tasted in your life. They go great with the pastries.

And no matter what you eat, every last person in France, from your waiter to your friend to that random guy on the street, hopes you enjoy the hell out of your meal.

Voila!

This uniquely French phrase, which I'm sure you've all heard, means, literally, something like, "Look! There! It is done! Lo and behold!" But it is very hard to translate it literally, because it really just means, Voila!

And so I am saying this to you: Voila! Some photos! I finally connected my camera to my computer and I'm sharing a few things as a result. See to your right.

Voila!

Viele Feinde viel Ehre!

I learned this phrase at a party in Leipzig, Germany, where Michael and I traveled this past weekend to visit our friend Zane, who's teaching at the University of Leipzig for the semester. The phrase "viele Feinde viel Ehre!" means "More enemies, more honor!" and we learned it in the context of a guy who's friends were angry with him for winning all their card games, which they played, he explained, for honor rather than cash.

Aside from cards, though, I have to say that nothing in the way the Germans acted indicated that they associate enemies with honor. In contrast, everyone was interesting, hospitable and kind. Frank (Zane's friend also teaching at U of L) filled me in on a lot of the 20th century history I seem to have missed during my education. Did you know the last of the allied troops didn't leave Berlin until 1994? That the Stasi (East German Secret Police) preserved people's smells from their clothes and trained dogs to track their presence? That the "Iron Curtain" was so-named because there were lots of ACTUAL walls between communist countries and their Western neighbors?

Where was I? Summer camp, I guess.

And school, but even though I had Texas History for three whole different years of school, but I only spent about three weeks learning about the years from 1930 to 2000, and even those I can sum up in three simple, but grammatically complete, sentences: Hitler was bad. But we are good. And communism is stupid.

But in Germany the story comes alive. We saw Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin (where the West ended at the East began), and saw where the '89 riots began in Leipzig, and spent time at the Stasi museum. My historical imagination was sparked, and I spent most of my time wandering around with a general sense of disbelief at all that's happened there in the past 100 years. That, and how great the people are.

The Stasi museum was some first class spy shit. Little microphones that look like shirt buttons. Long-range photography. Smell preservation. Extraordinarily delicate letter opening machines and stamp forgeries. Disguises. Stuff that makes you think this is a museum for spy films. But no, its actual tools employed during that time. The Stasi museum is home to the few remaining, intact pieces of equipment in Germany. The rest was sold to the Department of Homeland Security during an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime, "everything must go" sale a few years back.

For any readers from the Department of Homeland Security, I kid.

And then, on Sunday, there was the squatters' festival. The municipality of Leipzig owns all these old houses where people can live free of rent and pay what they can amongst themselves for water and electricity. These squatters had a festival, which was actually a stage in back for some hard core punk music and a stage in front for karaoke (hard core pop songs like, "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Love is a River"). Lots of people had weird fake blood smeared all over them. Lots of people were incredibly drunk. And some of those drunk, fake-blood-smeared German punks sang the best version of "Barbie World" that I have heard yet to date.

They just don't do punk in the states like they do punk in Germany.

Anyway, I know I'm leaving things out, but I didn't have much of a chance to think. We got in late last night and my mom arrived for a visit early this morning, and she's hungry and we've gotta go eat (foreshadowing for the next blog?...) I only wrote this today because Alan said that blogs are like handjobs and you have to keep them going to get results. Gross, Alan. Gross, but oddly compelling.

So no enemies this trip. And I guess....no honor? I definitely feel I have to return to Germany. This time knowing some actual history. This time for longer. This time with more money to spend in its thrift stores.

Besides, as the Germans also say, "einmal ist keinmal." What happens but once might as well not have happened at all.

Compare vs. Contrast

This is a question of English linguistics. One that has long haunted me. The phrase “compare and contrast,” so popular in junior high essay prompts, is indicative of everything wrong with American education. Because the word “compare” means to delineate the similarities AND differences between two subjects and the word “contrast” in this context is thus redundant.

I have tried to make this simple argument to several friends. They will say, “NO! Compare means to find similarities, and contrast means to find differences.” What baffles me is not that they make this argument – most every product of American junior high does – but that even when they SEE with their own very two EYES the dictionary telling them otherwise, they still cling to their misgivings, much like they sometimes insist that “Wherefore art thou Romeo” is Juliet asking where Romeo is, and not WHY he has to be Romeo, instead of someone less star-crossed, even though they are so clearly wrong.

It is difficult to maintain friendships with people who don’t think “Compare and contrast” is a redundant thing to tell somebody to do. If you are one of the ones who defends that phrase then do us both a favor and don’t tell me about it, unless you’ve been looking for a way out of this friendship for some time. In which case, this is your golden ticket.

This past week or so has been filled with ample opportunity for comparison. And, as things tend to do, the subjects presenting themselves for comparison seem to have fallen into a common theme. Is that because chronology and philosophy have found a brief, if harmonious, marriage in Paris? Or is it because I have that theme in mind and everything now falls into it? Please prepare an argument in 1,000 words or less and have it in my inbox by next Friday.

The saga begins actually a few weeks ago, when at my writing group our leader David presented several quotes about poetry and we compared structured poetry – like iambic pentameters, and sonnets – with the sort of free-flowing, abstract, formless poetry of modern times. The consensus being that grammar is helpful in a very logistical way. It helps us communicate. So if you’re going to undo all the agreed-upon rules of grammar and structure, then you’re certainly going to have to do it with great skill, lest your work appear a jumbled mass of words that means nothing to most readers.

Enter last Friday, when Michael and I went to the Rodin museum. This building, converted from the old Hotel de Biron (where Rodin, among others, had a studio) houses most of Rodin’s major works. Not to mention that it’s a gorgeous structure in and of itself, flanked by amazing gardens.

Rodin was a master of form. His human figures are so realistic that I wanted to reach out and touch them. And because he adheres religiously to the human form, he is able to communicate very immediately the pathos embodied in each form. If any of you ever find yourselves in Paris, put this museum at the top of your list. It’s a beautiful and sensual place.

Skip ahead to the following Thursday, when we went to the Centre Georges Pompidou, home of Paris’ largest modern art collection. Here, we watch the strict adherence to form crumble, jumble and reorder itself. And yet, of course, all the artists featured here did this so skillfully that the effect is not lost – Julio Gonzalez and (of course) Picasso & Matisse – didn’t lose any ability to convey pathos even as they lost skeletal and muscular accuracy. (Although I have to say that I didn’t feel the same urge to reach out and touch the humans in question. That, by the way, is a contrast, but it’s included semantically in the comparison.)

Then we move forward to Rothko, who puts nothing but color on a canvas. And still, it’s compelling. But not just anybody could do that. In fact, I think people who reject grammar and skeletons run a great risk of connecting to nobody. The point, as Picasso says, is not to create a formless blob, but rather to create something “More real than real” in the course of disintegrating the “real” forms of things. To start with a well-constructed sentence and then take out the parts of it that define a thing too much, but to leave just the parts of it that evoke, is a tricky task. I don’t really feel comfortable with it, so I stick to my trusty semicolons and stark definitions of vocabulary words.

Add the Pompidou center to your short list, too.

Another interesting manifestation of this theme presented itself to us on Saturday, when we visited first the Catacombs (Paris’ enormous underground cemetery) and then, not twenty minutes after we exited the underground labyrinth, ended up in the Cemetery Montparnasse, one of Paris’ oldest above-ground cemeteries.

To get to the ossuary of the catacombs (where all the bones are), one first descends many stairs and walks through lots of creepily-lit tunnels. Eventually, this path leads you to the ossuary, where the winding paths are literally lined with bones. Some 6 million people’s bones are down there. Originally they had been thrown in unorganized heaps, but in the early 19th century, they were placed in an orderly fashion. This means wall-like structures formed from femurs and tibias and fibias. Skulls form rows. There are hip and shoulder bones here and there, but most of the smaller insignificant bones have crumbled under the weight of the bigger ones.

Many notorious people are “buried” in the Catacombs, but of course they are buried in obscurity. One of those skulls belonged to Robespierre. But who knows? Maybe his left femur is yards away. Maybe his tibia was stolen. In the catacombs, everyone is anonymous. Great figures of the revolution have decomposed, disintegrated, and mixed up with the remains of unknowns from the Cemetery of the Innocents.

The catacombs was also one of several sites of underground resistance during the Nazi occupation. Which also certainly sparks the imagination.

Ascend the stairs and walk north to the Cemetery Montparnasse, where families are buried in family plots under enormous granite, marble and ceramic edifices. Where the tombstones, some of them, are worth far more than my actual life. Where the grounds are manicured and the light hits the black marble monuments and glints off them pleasantly. A cheerful place.

It’s hard to say, really, which is more real. Scattered, anonymous human skeletons or the overly-ornate monuments to the dead contrived, in large part, by the living. Whom we all know are possessed of amazing powers of imagination.

Anyway, you can draw your own conclusions about all of this. Maybe you like formless poetry. Maybe you hate abstract art. Maybe you want to be buried in a family plot or maybe you want your bones to be scattered underground, or maybe you don’t think too much about your own death, which is healthy and good.

None of that matters to me, personally. I’d love to hear whatever thoughts you have and will be your friend no matter what you believe so long as you don’t ever ask me to compare AND contrast anything. Ever. Life is too short to find our differences twice.

Say hello to my little friend...

Michael arrived on Wednesday, and it's been a joy to have him in Paris. Here I am, with my boyfriend, on semi-vacation, in the most romantic city in the world. And we don't even have to pay for lodging. How charmed can a life be?

And it really raises some fantastic linguistic points. In French, the term for boyfriend is "petit copain," which, if you translate it literally, means "little friend." Talk about opportunities! Like at the pickup soccer game we played in together today, I was able to say, by way of introduction, (in French, but I'll translate it): My name is Kelly (pause, gesture) - and that's my little friend.

If you don't think that's hilarious then you're clearly possessed of a sense of humor much more sophisticated than mine. You poor, laughless bastard.

The immense potential for hilarity in this little phrase motivated me to research a little more on the word "boyfriend," and led to some telling discoveries. That, for example, the word "boy" is derived from "boie," meaning: servant, commoner, knave. This, in turn, comes from the old french "embuie," or, "one fettered." ("Fettered with what?" one wonders. "A 'little friend'?" ) This from the Latin boia: "Leg iron, yolk, leather collar." This from the Greek boeiai dorai: ox hides.

I'll just leave you to your own thoughts for a moment. Hopefully your sophisticated sense of humor doesn't ruin all the fun.

Hoping to find something a little less demeaning for our little friends, I looked up husband. Those of you who know anything about husbandry will be quick to predict that the results were not so much more flattering. I give you an exerpt:

The sense of "peasant farmer" (c.1220) is preserved in husbandry (first attested c.1380 in this sense). Beginning c.1290, replaced O.E. wer as "married man," companion of wif, a sad loss for Eng. poetry.

And a sad loss for English-speaking men, too, who seem to have gotten the short end of some linguistic stick. Maybe the same stick that beat their oxen hides so many years ago.

But to bring us back to the present. I feel a little strange referring to someone as pleasant and lovely as Michael as a knave, or servant. Not to mention that I don't want any implications of leg irons and leather collars to sneak their way into my simple introductions. And when I asked him, just now, if he felt at all fettered, he said no. (Then he [quite reasonably] wanted to know why I asked, but he'll just have to wait and find out with the rest of you. Little friends don't get any special treatment in the cutthroat world of internet blogging.)

So, as we traipse around Paris, enjoying food, friends, the Marais, soccer, the sights, and so forth, I will continue on my chosen path. I will say, (in French for now, but maybe I'll keep up the habit in English when I get home): "So nice to meet you! I'm Kelly. And now say hello to my little friend."

Ta Maman vs. Yo Momma

I have a theory, and as far as I'm concerned it was confirmed beyond reasonable doubt last night at the bar, and the glory of pursuing writing, rather than a PhD in linguistics (which I've considered at length before) is that as a layperson I can use bar conversations as evidence and you can all just understand what I mean, whereas as an academic I have to spend three paragraphs describing what I mean by my name, which is even then apt to be questioned at some point.

I can also write really long sentences, Dickens-sytle.

So here's my theory. Having learned English, Spanish, some Tibetan, and some French, and having read some snatches of Italian and discussed this very question last night with a Phillipino man, I have realized that in every single one of these languages, the word that people use to call their mothers starts with an "m" sound. And the word that people use to call their papa starts with a "p" sound, or, in our case a "d."

With deference to Daddies, though, I will start with the "m" sound in mother-words. The "m" sound, present in all these languages, is formed by putting the lips together and breathing out while you open them. That's it. Closing, opening, breathing. It's an incredibly simple sound to make.

The "p" sound, similarly, requires closing, opening, breathing. And so the words we use to call our first people, the pillars of our infant world, the only people we really need to call out to in those first months of life, all begin with those simple sounds. Close, open, breathe.

Compare to, say, the "scra" sound. Or the "thra" sound, or even just the "na" sound, which requires a little more coordination - putting the tongue behind the front teeth and humming through it.

And also the way life wouldn't seem much worth living if our first words were "Scrotum" or "Thoracic."

And then, for the sake of general interest, you could just run through all the sounds you happen to know how to make and dwell on how basically fascinating it is that we've mastered some specific sets of sounds based on where we grew up, and that we use these sets of sounds - this closing, opening, breathing, humming and throating - to express anger. And love. And exasperation with customer service professionals.

It's that same set of sounds that we use to say things like, "No, I'm not stoned. I just think it's interesting."

That being said, it's incredibly easy to say "Mama" in French. And spanish. And Tibetan, and Tagala (the indigenous language of Phillipino/as). It's a basic and necessary enough sound that any of us could do it in any language. Sadly, if I go on to say ANYTHING else it becomes painfully clear that I am not French.

Because, of course, I didn't grow up hearing "r" pronounced through the back of the throat, as if with disgust. And I didn't grow up only half-pronouncing the few letters of words that aren't purely decorative. So its hard. It's easier in Spanish, for me, because pronunciation is so purely phonetic. If a letter is there, you say it. Not so much in French.

Sometimes the best way to describe French pronunciation is to place some set of letters at the end of the word in parenthesis, as though they are an afterthought. Like the "n" in vin (wine) & copain (friend). It's as if the n was there, hanging out with the rest of the letters, but it left when it saw you coming and now only its smell remains.

The good news is, if you get completely confused, and feel like a total ugly American with big, angular speech, you can always buy un boteille de vin for about 1 euro and drink it in anywhere you please. Then you can drink another, curl up in the fetal position, babble incoherently, and beg for your Maman. This, at least, they'll understand. They might even think you're French.

Housepet vs. A Four-Legged Instruement of Torture

I wrestled with so many different titles for this post. Northern Ireland vs. Ireland. The UK vs. Ireland. The chemist vs. the pharmacist.

I've spent all week at Ben and Lisa's friends' country house in Loughbrickland, a tiny village just north of the border between the Republic of Ireland and the UK (Northern Ireland). One main way to tell the difference is the speed limit signs; in Northern Ireland they use mph, in Ireland proper, kph. Which is to say, as our host William did, that you can't suddenly go twice as fast just south of Newry.

William said some other interesting things, too. He caught me up on the IRA, Irish Nationalism, the Protestant/Catholic thing, etc. Apparently it was a big deal for some 350 years, but for the first 340 years I was not yet in existence, and for the last 10 I was a child. So you can forgive me for not knowing the whole story.

William said, in conclusion, that the time between the point where everyone realized fighting was pointless, and the point where they actually signed a treaty was about 15 years because "The dead bully you. 'Specially your own dead."

Belfast, which is about 40 minutes north of Loughbrickland, is palpably trying to become a tourist town. For so long, nobody in their right mind wanted to go there, but now that's changing a bit, and the Belfastians are milking everything they can out of the fact that the Titanic was constructed in their great shipyards.

Anyway, back to Loughbrickland. We stayed in a house that has been in William's family since the 17th century, complete with hanging portraits of the ancestors from that time, and situated on 100 idyllic acres of Irish countryside. Just behind the house is a fort that dates back to 800 or 1000 ad. All that remains is the dramatic way in which they restructured the land, digging one deep, circular ditch between two steep circular banks.

I photographed it but, alas, you'll just have to wait.

I actually took quite a few pictures in Ireland. The quality of the color and light here is so compelling that not only did I photograph it, but I was also motivated to actually adjust the settings on my camera (something I haven't ventured to do since i purchased it five years ago) in order to more accurately capture the scenes. We'll see what luck I had.

All would be completely well - the countryside, the first pilgrimage to the motherland (Kelly Jean is an Irish name if there ever was one), the tea, the BBC - if it weren't for the fact that, unbeknownst to me, this particular well-meaning family is in possession of two housecats. For those of you lucky enough to not be allergic, you'll think: "Oh, how nice. Country cats in country house. What could be sweeter?"

But if, like me, the presence of cat dander causes your lungs to seize up, and your chest to close, and general misery to ensue, you'll probably think: "Why do people insist upon keeping four-legged instruments of torture as pets? It's like having a beehive in the living room. It's like giving loaded guns to children as toys."

I took a trip to the chemist earlier this week to get drugs for my affliction, and he showed me no sympathy. I guess I expected him to hold me in his arms and stroke my hair, and tell me it would be alright, and if I did have a life-threatening asthma attack I could call him in the middle of the night and he'd rush over with an inhaler. But no, he simply gave me an antihistamine and went back to his chemist-ing. The most I can say for him is that his Irish accent was much better than John Wayne's in that classic movie The Quiet Man.

Cats aside, if I ever have children and do not return with them to this place when they are between 6 and 10 years old, I will be doing them a great disservice. The woods, the horses, the climbing trees, the trampoline. So plans are underway. I've made a reservation for four for 15 years from now, God willing.

(If you make a reservation and include "God Willing," in the contract, then you cannot be held financially responsible for your absence. If God did not will it, then how can they charge your credit card with a clear conscience?)

We return home tomorrow. Well, not home in the grand sense of the world, but Paris. And maybe it is home, if it's true, what they say: "Home is where you hang your cat. With a shoelace."

That may have been a bit gruesome. Instead, I offer you a line in perhaps the most quintessential Irish movie of the past year: The Departed. Leonardo DiCaprio remarks to Vera Farmiga: "You don't have a cat. I like that." It is important to note that Leo was playing the good guy.

In conclusion, sadly, most of my homes have a cat in or near them. Shit. I guess nobody feels sorry for me. Not my boyfriend. Not my mother. Not the Irish chemist. I'm completely alone in the world.

I don't know, CAN you?

I discovered a writing group here in Paris, held in English at the revered and aforementioned Shakespeare & Co. The group has been good motivation to write, although my long story needs so much work that I think that maybe I will just give up and go to law school after all.

NO! Faith, good soldier. The war has not been lost yet.

Besides motivation, the writing group also provides merry company. (Get it? Shakespeare & ...) Sorry, terrible. The French are obsessed with bad puns and it's rubbing off. I went with them to a lesbian bar called Les Jacasses last night - easily the best bar in Paris so far. I learned, first by watching and then by asking, how to actually ask for something politely in French. "Est-ce que je peux...?" is how one would say, basically, "May I..." But I have just been saying, "Je peux?"

I think we all know that the little words are sometimes the hardest to learn. So, it turns out that I have been going around Paris just making simple, declarative sentences, but using the tone of voice of a question. "I can have glass of water?" "I can use chair?" "I can use toilet?"

This mixup has added new importance to the constant refrains of my grammatically-correct family. "Mommy, can I have some water?" "I don't know, can you?" Blah, blah, blah. But I see now that she was right. Adam and Meyer have this endearing way of saying things like, "Kelly, may you get the toaster down for me?" Or, "Kelly, may you clean up my mess?" Something about it makes it seem that even though they're asking me to do something for them, that somehow they're affording me a great honor. I haven't corrected them as I think they may find it useful later in the never-ending lifelong battle to get what it is you want.

So that's a short entry, but I'm offering, in place of the usual blog, a piece of microfiction I wrote on the metro. Microfiction is defined as very very very small fiction. You can read story?

What the Cars Missed: A True Story

On the way to the Belleville stop, past the church with the mass in Creole, I pass a woman selling corn which she roasts over coals set up in a shopping cart. Necessity must be so proud of her daughter! The corn costs 2 Euro. 13 Francs. 2 dollars and seventy-point-something cents.

On the metro, I am lost in my book. I only glance up to check the outside stops against the inside maps. Even when I know where I’m going, I am the type to keep careful track of my passage.

A man boards at Madeleine Concord. He is laden with a backpack, a sleeping pad, and other accoutrements of travel. Travel, but not poverty. His sleeping bag swings and almost hits me in the face. When the door closes, he spreads his arms wide against it, rests his head on the glass, and sobs.

He is so sad that I want to reach out and touch his arm, ask if he’s okay, but of course I don’t. I just steal furtive glances at him and force my eyes to rest elsewhere – on my book, on the map. I see a tear poised on the tip of his nose, but I don't have time to see it fall without staring, which is rude.

At La Tour-Maubourg, he gets off.

I notice the other passengers now, fellow witnesses. There is a group of nuns. I can’t discern their ethnicity. They look South American but they’re not speaking Spanish. They wear blue habits and bright green sashes and chatter rapidly.

The man beside me is handsome. He is reading a book in French, and he has shoes with sparkles on them. We both get off at Ecole Militaire but I lose sight of him in an upscale food shop. The kind where a sandwich costs 13 euro. (85 Francs. 17 dollars and fifty cents.)

On the return trip I am tired. I get out again at Belleville and watch a man sprint down the walkway that runs through the middle of the Blvd. de la Villete. Another man chases him, and at first I think they’re just having fun, but then the first man trips. I see his reflection in a parked car as he falls forward. The second man catches him, and I understand now that they’re not playing. The first man pleads, in high, frantic tones, as if for his very life.

It occurs to me, as I keep walking, worried for the pleading man but knowing that I’m completely unequipped to do anything about it, that I haven’t driven a car or ridden in a car for months now. And I don’t miss it. Not at all. And I think: maybe this is why so many middle-class Americans are so ignorant. They just never use public transportation.

I walk home, marking each cross street along the way. Once I’m in bed, I open up my book again to read myself to sleep. My book is in English. It’s thick and very informative. It is a new, highly celebrated, history of Paris.

The Grown-Up World, The Kid World, and Le Monde

Firstly, let me apologize again for the lack of pictures. Sigh. You must continue to be patient with me, as my camera is apparently so special, so unique, so ethereally wonderful that it can only transfer digital information through an equally rare and special cable which can only be found in a gilded box, guarded by a three-headed fire-breathing dragon, lying at the center of the Fountain of Youth.

On August 4th, we celebrated the boys' third birthday. (Worthy of note is the fact that they received Fisher Price digital cameras, so even they can take and transfer pictures, even if it's thirty-five pictures of the floor.)

We took them to the Open Air Sculpture museum, right on the Seine, which is free to the public and allows interaction with the sculptures. One can climb on them, touch them, photograph them (which the boys did adamantly, with varied results) and even (if you are French) put out cigarettes into their recesses. What a mix of man and art! I have a daydream of playing hide-and-go-seek there when Michael (happy now?), Justin and Kat are all here.

Adam particularly loved the sculptures, and he is an avid photographer. He also captured many zoo creatures in the nearby menagerie we visited, part of the [also free] Jardin de Plantes.

The menagerie is the oldest in the world, and is the one featured in Madeline books. This very spot held the tigers in the zoo (to whom Madeline simply said, Pooh-pooh).

As they grow, so does their love of books. I read much Madeline, which is why I always want to start emails with: I am in Paris and feeling fine...

For their birthday, then, I went to the famous English-language bookstore across from Notre Dame called Shakespeare & Company. This spot is a must for any future visitors - an expat eccentric started it about 50 years ago, and it has been host to many writers, visitors and wanderers. One can even stay there for free, in exchange for a couple hours of work a day.

While there, I bought The Wind in the Willows for them, an old favorite of mine, and Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris for me. More on that later. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading WITW to them; so much so that I've decided the main reason to procreate is to read the books you loved to your children. Or, in the case of my friend Mike Hurewitz, to show them Star Wars.

While reading WITW the other day, I came to the part where Toad says to Rat and Mole, "I want to show you the world!" And Meyer, well into his "Why" phase, asked me, "Kelly? What is the world?"

And I, faced with perhaps the most poetic & beautiful opportunity of my life, replied: "Ummm, well....."

And now the blog really starts. Because watching children grow in their comprehension of language, I am struck by how much it mirrors my own comprehension of any new language. In fact, I often say that the best way to learn a language is to do exactly what young children do: Listen. Pick up a few things. Practice them. Master them. Listen more. Ask. And then, of course, employ your grown-up meta-logic & memory to put things in context.

The mistakes Adam and Meyer make when they speak English are the same sorts of mistakes I make in French. Adam says "his" or "him" or "he" for everyone. ("When is he coming?" referring to my mother.) In French, I am constantly confused about which words are masculine and which are feminine. I may have implied that my mother's husband is in some way female.

Poor Mommy. There's really a lot of miscommunication about her these days. I assure you there is nothing alternative about her lifestyle.

But I digress. So I set out to answer Meyer's question. "The world," I said (in that slow, stupefied voice employed by adults to answer these exact sort of questions) "is everything. Everything you can see, and everything you can't. More or less."

Meyer and Adam began pointing to various objects. Windows, sheets, cars, bicycles, people, floors, etc. Asking about each, in turn, "Kelly? Is that the world?" And I would say, "Yes." We even went on a walk, Meyer and I, pointing out things that were the world. Umbrellas. Coffee. Signs. Until Meyer said, "Kelly? I'm tired of pointing out things that are the world. Can we talk about something else?"

I said yes. But you, dear reader, will not be so lucky.

The english "world" comes from the old english woruld, meaning "human existence, the affairs of life," from the literal "Age of Man" ("wer," man + "ald," age). It has, of course, also taken on a geopolitical connotation, but we should try to stick to the basics with a topic like this, else the following conversation occur:

Meyer: "Kelly? What's geopolitical?"
Me: It means physical places and nation-states.
Meyer: Kelly? What's a nation-state?
Me: It's a group of people united under one government, and I think one sort of common identity? I don't know, exactly.
Meyer: Kelly? Why don't you know exactly?
Me: Because I don't know everything, Meyer.
Meyer: Why don't you?

And so forth. Parents, teachers: You know.

In French, the word for world is "le monde." Just as in Spanish (el mundo) it is masculine. It comes from the Latin "mundus," used to indicate "world" and meaning, literally, "clean, elegant." Interesting, non?

"Clean, elegant," came to be used to describe the physical world, expressed by Pythagorus, and was a translation from the Greek "khosmos," meaning "orderly arrangement." In Latin, "mundus" is also used to refer to women's clothing.

So the world is masculine, but clothing is not. But both are clean and elegant, ideally.

Anyway, the Latin languages used an approach to world which came from an inherent sense of order and the germanic languages used an approach which came from the affairs of man.

In the context that I am trying to elucidate for Meyer and Adam, I like the germanic root better; it encompasses the incredible disarray that constitutes so much of le monde. Things like babies, big kids, restaurants, sausage, mothers, fathers, books and nannies - and other things that largely compromise Adam & Meyer's world.

It is gratifying to see Meyer's face light up, when he points to a sewer, and says (with great excitement), "Kelly! Sewers! Those are part of the world, too!"

A world which they are avidly photographing, alas, while I am not.

French Kissing vs. The International Open-Mouthed Tongue Parade

Dear Readers,

I present you with a passage from my guidebook:

"There is no such thing in France as the French kiss. Open-mouthed tongue kissing has no national boundaries, and aside from les bises, the formal greeting that marks most encounters, is really the only kind of kissing that counts here."

I read this before I went, and after a couple weeks, I'd like to add the following:
"And how."

My sightseeing so far in Paris has consisted largely of people making out with each other. People making out with each other in the Gardens of Luxembourg, the enormous, lush monument to Marie de Medicis' dead husband. The park is complete with a fountain, a bocci court, playgrounds, tennis courts and acres upon acres of beautiful lawns and benches for people to make out on. The garden abuts the Palais du Luxembourg, an ornate and enormous structure that houses the French senate, who must be grateful to be relieved, during heated senatorial debates, to gaze out upon The People publicly displaying such unbounded affection for their fellow man/woman.

People make out on the metro, of course, due to it's cozy nature. In fact, you can often be squeezed right up next to a couple making out, and if you're lucky maybe the train will jostle and someone will lick your cheek.

People make out in restaurants, and I try my best to be blasse about it. It's a different culture, I was raised in a prude one, it's fine to make out wherever you want. But sometimes the American girl in me can't help but stare when I see strangers all but conceiving a child on a bench in the Parc de Butte-Chaumont, where the innocent among us are trying to have a run.

I can see them in their homes now:
Man: "Hoh hoh hoh. Let us make out now."
Woman: "No! There are not enough people to see us! We must go into public and make an exhibition of it!"

Needless to say, I feel more left-out than judgmental. Not that the French haven't been inviting. Why, just yesterday I was quietly having a decaf cafe while I waited to walk to the movie theater, and one of the bartenders, after a chat where I told him I was married and here visiting my husband's sister, nearly pulled me into his lap for a kiss. I had to wriggle a little to get out of his amorous clutches.

Last weekend at a nightclub, I turned from the bar to find myself approximately half an inch from one man's French kiss. Or, whatever - International Open-Mouthed Kiss. I said I was married. He didn't speak any English except for the following phrase, which he kept repeating:

"I am a man! I am a man! I am a man!"

So that's mainly what I have to report: P. D. A. I will regale you soon with adventures at the Louvre, or the Musee Rodin, or the Eiffel Tower...but I know for sure those places will all be filled with people performing their own unique versions of the International Open-Mouthed Tongue Parade. For now I am holed up safe in my apartment where, due to the T.V not working, I actually can't see anyone making out right now. I can just gaze out my window in peace and...

well, nevermind.

A Social Democracy vs. A...What are we, exactly?

In Paris, they have a phrase: c'est l'hôpital qui se moque de la Charité. It means, literally, "It is the hospital mocking charity" and it is the French version of the pot calling the kettle black.

Interesting, non? For we certainly do not hail from a country where hospitals and charities could ever be confused. Before I left, I tore my rotator cuff, and the diagnostic visit + a shot of cortizone & lidocaine, was $415.00. Now, consider this: in case of emergency, a doctor can visit your house for $50 euro. And if you go to his office, the average cost (and this is not a copay, folks) is $25 euro.

So why the disparity? Some Americans say it is because the quality of the healthcare suffers. If I had just discovered that I pay some eight times the amount that healthcare is worth, then I, too, would feel a need to claim that the cheaper version was poorer quality. But I would be wrong. French doctors charge less in part because they have less overhead - they pay almost nothing for advertising, marketing and pompe, focusing instead on the actual healthcare.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. You're thinking, "But, Kelly. Don't you write freelance for a healthcare advertising agency? Isn't that kindof calling the kettle black?" And you're right, but you're a jerk. I'm just trying to make money as a writer so that one day I can stop working long enough to finish a novel. You can help by publicizing my blog. Stop pointing fingers, Bob. Be part of the solution.

Another thing Americans say when they find out how much better the schools and healthcare are in places like France is claim that the tax burden in France is almost unbearable. Also untrue. There is actually no income tax in France. The tax is all in sales.

For example, the French government collects 75% of the cost of cigarettes, which are smoked prolifically by 25% of the adult population, who in turn use a lot of cheap healthcare. So it goes around and comes around.

Point is, the amount of tax you pay depends largely on the amount you consume. Imagine that: taxes based on what you spend, and not what you earn. And no matter what, you're taken care of.

So it is possible. I've seen it. And today I did my part to contribute to the system by spending an uncharacteristic amount of money on things like shoes, clothes and purses. Just helping the cause, Bob. Trying to be part of the solution.

One last note on politics: Last week when I was in a smokey, techno, pulsing nightclub bar (not my usual style, but these things can be enjoyed once every seven years or so), I mentioned to someone that I was from Texas. She said, "Oh I am afraid, because of Bush." And I was trying to say, "I think he's a numbskull, too" and maybe express that I prefer a social democracy over whatever it is we are, too. But my French does not encompass that. So instead I just said, "Oh, Bush?" And stuck my tongue out and made a gross face.

I figure that's good enough.

March-ing vs. Walking

The French translation of "to walk" is "marcher," which in turn is the derivative of our work "To March." In English, as you know, "Marching" has a musical or military or otherwise industrial connotation - "to march" is not to stroll at leisure. In contrast, "to walk" derives from the welsh term for turning or rolling and is rooted in the act of kneading bread. English is a strange language.

To be sure, "Marcher" is a more appropriate description of what I've been doing, as I have not been strolling at leisure, or even walking at a normal pace. Daniel's been visiting and he really walks quickly. We have made our way through and around and outside of Paris, almost entirely on foot, and with the purpose and determination of Napoleon's Army. I have warned Daniel of the hazards of Russian winters and excess haste...but he's not historically inclined.

We have marched through Oberkampf, the hopping, bar-lined street in the 11th district where much of the young nightlife resides. We have marched through the Louvre courtyard (but not into the Louvre) and taken pause from our invasion of Paris long enough to say, "This is unbelievably huge." We marched across the Seine and into St. Germain de Pres, the famous shopping district, pausing just long enough to say, "These prices are unbelievably high." Although I added, "But maybe I can afford a purse."

We have marched our way through a lot of shopping, to be sure. Interestingly, markets are called "marche" which refers to the way in which people walk around a market. There's a lovely farmer's market-type-market just next to my house on wednesdays and Saturdays. Recently I saw a sign advertising a cybermarche, which I suppose refers to virtual ambulation. We found a pretty incredible flea market just outside the city, and I spent money on really cool vintage stuff, like a clutch and a necklace and prada shoes for $20 euro.

Then we marched home.

The other day we marched to a delicious dinner - I had a french classic, Duck. It was marvelous, but filling. No matter, as I marched it all off on the way home.

Last night we marched to the Open Air Cinema, which was pretty great. Every night in the summer, the city sets up an unbelievably huge screen and projects movies onto it whilst viewers lay in the park to watch. It's incredible, and I plan to return, albeit with a jacket this time, and some snacks.

A related warning on the hazards of the "auto-translate" function for websites: We looked up the Cinema for information, and auto-translated the page into english. Here is what it said about the Open Air Cinema: "The cinema of full with air has the wind in poop!"

Surely that's not right, as it was not our experience at all.

We marched home.

So I'm going to look into a bike rental for the time I'm here - Paris has a really popular, really functional program called Velib, which offers participants bikes and bikestops all over the city for very reasonable rates. It's like what Yellowbike was supposed to be, except for a minimal fee and centers to lock up the bikes, so they don't get stolen, painted a different color, and redistributed.

Not that I don't enjoy all the marching. I do. I just wish it was a little calmer. You know...more like kneading bread, and less like invading a city.

Hope everyone is well.

Art Nouveau vs. Things Nouveau

You are all most likely familiar with the french word "nouveau," (meaning new) from the phrase "Art Nouveau," which refers to the highly-stylized, expensive-to-produce, flowing art and architecture of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I suppose it is so named because at the time, it was new. Although, in retrospect, it's a rather short-sighted thing to call an art movement. One of my favorite artists, Alphonse Mucha, is famous for his impact on Art Nouveau.

Since you know the meaning of nouveau, let me introduce it in the context of my life. Here, everything is new. For example, at the cafes and bars, there are two prices for drinks: The (lesser) price for standing at the bar to drink and the higher price for sitting down. There are public toilets that are very, very clean on account of when you close the door behind you, jets of water spray over the entire thing, according to Lisa. There are these horror stories of mothers who accidentally left their kids in the toilet after they closed the door and the kids died from the power of the water spray. This delights me as it convinces me they are very clean, indeed.

Everyone speaks French all the time here. I guess I expected that, but it's still new.

Earlier today I went on my first walk around my new neighborhood in Paris. For those of you familiar with the city, I live in the 19th Arrindissmont, which is in the northeast part of the city. This part of town (Belleville) is sort of the Chinatown...and Arab town and Jewish Town...a very international part of the city. It's also quite fashionable these days. It's sort of the East Austin of Paris.

Anyway, I traipsed around in the rain looking for something Parisian and came upon a church. Outside the church were lots of tents. Inside those tents are people, which fact I learned when one of them popped his head out of the tent and began retching onto the street. Is that art nouveau? Wikipedia says no.

On the way back I saw writing on the tents and I thought I'd read it to see if I could trace the origin of said tents. I figure they are for the homeless. Though I was curious, I decided not to get to close. [see above paragraph] They were labelled "Medicins du monde" or "Doctors of the world." I think it is very nice of the doctors to provide tents for homeless people to retch out of, and stay dry in and so forth.

That is all for now. My internet access is limited until next week. I recommend, for those of you who are nouveau to this blog or haven't yet done so, that you read some of the comments. They are full of interesting linguistic tidbits. Also, Valerie writes in to say that the Cherokee have no word for "try." Either you do a thing, or you don't.

That said, I suppose I simply WILL learn this language, rather than just try to. And this culture. And the way home from the Papeterie. And the blog directions in French. And all manner of brand new things.

Work vs. A Three-Pronged Instrument of Torture

Before I leave the country, I have to spend quite a lot of time at my day job, so that I have plenty of money to blow in Paris. Doing so leads to a discussion of the english "to work" vs. the French word, "Travailler." For example, in english: "I work at an advertising agency." In French, "Je travaille pour le diable."

An etymological inquiry yields fascinating, and telling, results. In english, the word "work" derives from Ye Olde Englishe "wyrcan," from the merging of the P. Germanic "wurkijanan" and Ye Olde Englishe "wircan." (If you think I'm kidding, visit http://www.etymonline.com.) The roots all mean, "to work, operate, function." A mild enough description. The term "worker bee" was coined c. 1747. One gets the sense that, like bees, we must work as part of our function, and that there's a certain sort of harmonious consistence to the process.

Not so in French. The word "travailler" reminds us of the english word "travail," which means "to labor, or toil" and comes straight from the French word. Of course, the French comes from the same verb in Ye Olde Frenche, meaning "suffering or painful effort, trouble." The earliest form of "travailler" meant "to trouble, torture." Now, we're onto something.

"Travailler" is derived from the word "tripaliare," which means "to torture." This word comes from "tripalium," a Latin word meaning "instrument of torture." Illuminating, don't you think? "Tripalium" traces its roots to "tripalis," meaning "having three stakes."

Thank you for bearing with me during that tedious, but remarkably telling, exploration. You see, the French, unlike the Americans, are clearly onto something here. They are not afraid to call a spade a spade; or in this case, to call work an instrument of torture. Good for them.

In America, we act as though work is simply part of our function. Something we must to "to operate." Further than that, it becomes our identity - the way we define ourselves, our success, our intelligence. And we are expected not only to work, but to work all day, every day, sometimes for way more than 40 hours a week. (The French work week is 30 hours; in Spain they take a Siesta...) Those of us who choose to take it easy, or avoid a full-time job, are considered lazy, rather than sane. Americans are overworked and overstressed, but they act like this is simply one's function. After all, you don't hear bees complaining. (Unless "bzzzzz" in bee means "G.Damnit. I have to go make more stupid honey for that self-righteous, bossy, idiot queen.")

Historically, a German phrase has portrayed an eerily euphamistic attitude towards work. Let's not forget "Arbeit macht frei," or, "Work brings freedom." A more telling translation would be, "Work shall set you free," and the phrase was posted at the entrance of concentration camps.

Not that I should not complain too much. In this instant, "to work," for me, means "to blog and dream of iminent trip to Paris." And in Paris, "to work" will mean to spend time with Adam and Meyer, who are definitely not instruments of torture. And certainly, one must work to a certain extent, and that's fine, if one enjoys said work. But there are limits, and as a society we have long crossed them.

I suggest we reexamine our linguistics and, in turn, our lifestyle. Let's all start calling "work" what it is. For example:

WIFE: "So long, honey. I'm off to my three-pronged instrument of torture."

HUSBAND: "Alright dear. When you get home, we can have three steaks."

And so forth.

I'm Excited vs. Je suis excitee

Or, alternately titled: The things we have vs. the things we are.

In Spanish, there is this idea that there are two ways to be (ser, estar); a permanent way of being and a temporary way of being, respectively. For example, one can be temporarily tired (estoy cansada) or even temporarily married (estoy casada) but permanently an American woman. (Yo soy una mujer. Yo soy de los Estados Unidos.) In Spanish, we acknolwedge that there is a difference - however much it is mired in cultural assumptions - between that which you are experiencing transiently and that which you permanently are.

Neither French nor English have this characteristic, but French has another way of grappling with this. One can either be something or have something. (The same is true in Spanish.) For example, one has hunger (j'ai faim), has thirst (j'ai soif); they are a seperate entity that one is carrying with them for some period of time - we get the sense that you can let them go - as soon as you eat sheeps brains or drink water. There is also plenty of room to BE something temporarily: for example, "Je suis tres excitee!"

I posted this on my email lately thinking, "Oh. It means, 'I am very excited [for my trip].'" But it was called to my attention by my French-speaking friend Alan that what I was really publicly proclaiming was that "I am very horny."

This was not the case.

I realized (see first entry) that just because the word in French is simply one added e or so different from the word in English doesn't mean they are the same thing. In English, "excited" basically refers to the state of looking forward to something. In France, it seems, the only thing anyone ever looks forward to is sex. Of course, in English, "excited" can of course refer to a sexually aroused state of being, but one would not necessarily assume so. You could say, "That man is excited," and depending on the man in question you would not automatically assume that he was specifically looking forward to sex. Or, we could say, "That electron has been excited," and most people would either (a) not know what you're talking about or (b) think the electron had jumped from one orbital to a higher orbital, presumably not to have electron sex. So imagine my surprise when I discovered (after already having sent an email to another french-speaking friend containing said phrase, of course) what it was I had been implying.

How embarrasing.

In English, of course, we have our own slang: horny. If one were to say, "That man is horny," we would not assume that he had horns proturuding from his skull. In French, if I say, "L'homme est cornu" (The man is horny) they would look at me funny and wonder: Why are Americans such religious fanatics? I would have to correct myself and say "L'homme est excite." And then, being French, they would snicker.

But I digress somewhat. (Apologies: I only wanted to make a point, and for those of you who have read the first entry, you'll understand the significance of added "e" sounds. Also, those of you looking forward to your visit to France should be careful how you express that.)

My point, originally, was this. In English, there is no implied sense of temporarily being something (as in Spanish) or of simply having something (such as hunger) for a transient state of time. One simply is. One is hungry. One is thirsty. One is tired. One is married. One is divorced. One is a woman from America. Of course, you could say, "I am temporarily hungry" or "I will be thirsty until I drink a sufficent amount of liquids" or "I am married until I get tired of it" but there is no built-in implication of permanence or transience. It's all the same word.

And if there's one thing we've learned today, its that built-in implications are IMPORTANT.

So as an amateur linguist, I wonder: What does this built-in impermanence imply about a culture? Obviously, Americans practice impermanence. They just don't necessarily accept it linguistically. Is this denial? Or something we simply inherited long ago? I don't recall Latin having a permanent or impermanent form of the word "to be," but perhaps that should serve as a warning sign for languages that don't accept impermance. Those languages, ironically, perish.

We shall explore in more depth as the trip progresses. I look forward to your thoughts on all these matters. Together we will get to the root of these questions: I hope we are all excited.

The Premise: La Premisee

I leave for France in two weeks, and will use this blog to document the whole five-month experience. That is, assuming I can stop having fun long enough to make regular posts. Hopefully my perennial longing for attention will motivate me to be diligent in this undertaking.

Those of you lucky enough to subscribe will be graced with weekly - perhaps monthly - insights into my trip; the food, the surroundings, the twins, and - most importantly - the language.

For example, today I introduce the following french word: Premisee. It means: Premise. This will be easy to remember if you use the following memory trick: When you think of the english word "Premise," you think "A supposition." You immediately remember that "Premise" rhymes with "Grimace," which is the face you make when someone suggests eating sheeps brains. You recall from World Cultures in 9th grade that French people simply ADORE sheep brains. They think it is tres bon. And then you think: "Ah, French. The french word for premise is 'Premisee,' which I remember because its essentially the same as in English but with an extra e."

See?

As my trip approaches, I wonder just how different Paris will be. Having travelled to the remote Tibetan villages of the Himalayas, I feel prepared for the culture shock: in fact, I'm fairly convinced that any place where the language has the same basic elements of sentence structure cannot be a place so entirely different from my home. On the other hand, even travelling to Dallas is like going to a whole new time and place. (In the words of Linda, Codey's mom: "Dallas! Shit, that's so far north they may as well be yankees!") So I have to assume a trip across the atlantic will be more culturally shocking than a trip three hours north in Texas. Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe the differences will be subtle. Maybe Paris will be exactly like Austin, but with an extra e. And while on the surface the difference will seem negligable, perhaps the nuanced variations in pronunciation, and meaning, will be harder to navigate than they will be to perceive.

Having not yet gone, I can't predict what the differences between Paris and Austin will be though I premise (v - to take for granted) that there will, at least, be some.